


scrimshaw

by Sciosa



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Bone Carving, M/M, not enough gay stammers in this but eh, this is pure self indulgence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-27
Updated: 2019-09-27
Packaged: 2020-10-29 00:24:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,198
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20787533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sciosa/pseuds/Sciosa
Summary: Beholding does not tell Jon how to do scrimshaw, which means he has to look it up the old-fashioned way.





	scrimshaw

**Author's Note:**

> this is basically dedicated to cinderpile and hellotrickster on tumblr whose posts and tags hit me with a tagteam one-two punch of feelings

Beholding does not tell Jon how to do scrimshaw, which means he has to look it up the old-fashioned way. Traditionally it would have been done with needles and soot, but Jon isn't confident that he can control a needle well enough to do what he wants and something in him viscerally resists the idea of darkening his etchings with burned carbon.

Fortunately, it turns out that one can order dental instruments and beeswax on the internet and Jon has an ample supply of ink already. It doesn't have to be fancy. It just has to be _right_.

This would be easier, he thinks, if he could just have Martin do it himself. As it is, he has to dig through the Archives for a couple of hours looking for anything in his handwriting. The others assume he's hunting for a specific statement and leave him alone but for the occasional disdainful glance from Basira or curious blink from Daisy. 

It shouldn't be this difficult to find traces of Martin's presence.

Well, that's the point.

The poetry itself isn't difficult to locate. Jon found the tapes months ago and squirrelled them away in his desk. He's chosen not to examine why in too much detail-- it looks a little too much like loneliness, and they have enough of that right now-- but it's convenient now.

The poetry isn’t _good_. Jon doesn’t think it is, anyway. But it’s _Martin’s_, and that’s the important thing.

Sealing the bone with the wax is uncomfortable, reminds him a little too much of _moisturizing_, of having cold hands on him. But it needs to be done. Jon can do a great many things he is uncomfortable with to do _this_ right.

When it’s finally prepared, Jon takes his time with it, lingers over the taste of the words and the shape of the letters. With the door shut, and the impression created that he’s… _consuming_ a statement, no one will bother him for anything less than a genuine emergency, and he only has one rib. (Well, one rib that he has immediate access to for his purposes.) Might as well do it right-- a second chance would be costly.

Most of the time, he isn’t that aware of the way the missing bones impact his breathing-- the way his whole chest feels more fragile and vulnerable, the slightly shortened way he inhales now-- but evidently _holding_ one of them is enough to bring it to the front of his attention. He measures his breaths and matches them to the scrape and scratch of the instruments-- inhale, trace the curve of Martin’s j, exhale, the slow slope of his v.

There is a spider lurking on the ceiling. Jon doesn’t look at it, but he Knows that it’s there. “You don’t get to be part of this,” he tells it. “This is mine.”

If he’s making choices, well. He’s made his. No spiderwebs necessary.

As soon as the last line of the last letter is in place, he feels something click into place inside him, the place where he used to have ribs. Something better there, now.

The ink is still wet on the bone when Jon hears the commotion out in the Archives. He sighs and wipes off the ink that hasn’t settled into the grooves-- he would have preferred to let it dry a bit in the open air before hiding it away, but needs must. The door to his office slams open faster than he expects it to, though, before he can even open the drawer to replace his rib in its usual location, and Martin is there, rumpled and furious.

“What did you _do_?” he demands, ice in every syllable. It’s still the best sound Jon has heard all day.

“Don’t worry,” Jon tells him, “It only goes one way, I made sure.”

Martin does not look remotely appeased, but before he can begin properly working up a full head of steam about it his eyes drift to the off-white bone in Jon’s hand, scored with black lines in his own handwriting, and he pales. “Jon. Jon, what did you do.”

“Made an anchor,” Jon sighs, and leans over to open his drawer. “A, a proper one, this time. It won’t affect you.”

Martin hurries around the desk and reaches out like he might just _take_ the rib away from Jon entirely, but his fingers flinch away from it at the last moment and he slams the drawer closed instead. “You can’t-- you don’t get to just, just _decide_ that you-- this isn’t _fair_.”

Jon looks up at him, imprinting the sight in his memory as he always does now, when every glimpse is precious. Even like this, when he’s angry and cold and not listening, he’s _Martin_. “What does fair have to do with it?”

“_What does_\-- Jesus _Christ_, Jon! You don’t want this!”

“No.”

“What does _that_ mean?”

“It means no, Martin.” Patience. It’s so hard to be patient, but he’s trying. “It means you don’t tell me what my choices are, and I don’t tell you what yours are.”

Martin freezes. “That’s not--”

“Sure it is. And I, I mean, I understand. I’m not, I don’t have the best… track record. But they’re my choices, Martin. I get to make them.”

“Not when they’re _bad choices_.”

Jon blinks at him and lets that just sit with him for a moment. “Martin, if I couldn’t make bad choices, why would the good ones mean anything?”

“Th-- that’s--”

“And this isn’t a bad one. This,” he holds up his rib and it gleams even in the dull yellow light of the Archives, “Just means that you’re important. That you matter. That I want you. You don’t have to do anything for that to be true, and it doesn’t have to mean anything to you. It just. Means something to _me_.”

Martin leans heavily on the corner of Jon’s desk, something confused and broken chasing itself through his eyes. He can’t seem to decide if he wants to look at the bone or at Jon’s face. “It’s… it’s not… there’s nothing _left_ for you, Jon.”

Jon sighs, reaching out one hand to pull gently on the hem of Martin’s shirt. Martin sinks to his knees at Jon’s feet, a breathy kind of sob escaping. “I think there is. But if there’s not, I still want the memory of you. Martin Blackwood, if I could carve you into every one of my bones I would. But this one will have to do.”

Martin presses the side of his face against Jon’s knee and _keens_, a slow sound like the last lonely exemplar of its species crying out for long-forgone companionship. Jon presses the tips of his fingers against the curve of Martin’s skull and waits.

Slowly, slowly, the chill of him fades and a thin, hopeful warmth fills into his limbs. Martin reaches up without looking to pull Jon’s rib gently out of his hands, turning it in the light while Jon strokes his hair.

“You should have waited,” he sighs, “I’ve written better poetry since this.”

Jon leans forward to press his mouth against Martin’s temple.

“I like this one.”


End file.
